


Take me home

by rimz08



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2210712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rimz08/pseuds/rimz08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How it all began, in the Birthday Boy AU. The beginning of their friendship, d'Artagnan meets Constance, and the legend of his wonderful hot chocolate begins. Spoilers for episode 1 I guess, if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take me home

"Take me home," she says, pleading, imploring, her eyes large and watery. He may not have known Constance more than three days, but he understands that she doesn't like to show weakness. This moment of fragility hits him like a punch to the stomach and in the midst of the chaos around him, his attention is focused solely on her. He slips his brown leather jacket off and puts it around her bare shoulders, both to provide her with a little modesty and offer some warmth. He puts an arm around her and she leans in to his touch. He looks back at Aramis, who nods to him, and as much as he might want to stay and help them "clean up" the mess, he knows that his duty lies elsewhere. In fact, he suspects, he may be lost to this woman forever.

 

Once they are inside her flat, she takes off his jacket and returns it to him. Suddenly embarrassed, she mutters something about needing to take off her awful makeup, and that she's fine, he can go, before hurrying off into the bathroom and closing the door. It's not long before he hears the water running and understands that she is in the shower.

She has wiped off the awful make up and scrubbed her face raw. Now she is standing under the stream of hot water, desperately trying to make herself feel clean. As the water cascades over the curves of her body, she hears the front door bang closed. She told him to leave, and now he's left, which is the last thing she really wanted. What she wanted was for him to stay, to hold her, to comfort her, to make this better. She wants him to stay forever. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she feels truly alive. But Constance long ago learned to show the world only a strong, closed exterior.

She's only known this guy for three days, and already she knows that she wants him in her life. He has filled up the hole left by her growing distance from Jack and her husband's many affairs (about which she pretends not to know). In retrospect, she should have just left him on the floor of the supermarket where she found him three days ago, she thinks, as tears pour down her cheeks.

 

_Three days earlier_

Constance is wandering the isles of Tesco Metro, filling her basked with microwave meals on her way home from work, dreaming of a warm hot bath. Jack is away on business again and she has neither the energy nor the desire to cook for herself. All of a sudden, a young man rushes past her down the frozen food section, crouching down behind the freezer. His eyes are wild and his face bruised. The doctor in her screams out to help him, although after a 24 hour shift it's the last thing she wants to do.

Setting down her basket, she crouches down in front of him.

"Are you ok?" she asks.

"Shh!" he puts a finger to his lips, "I'm being followed."

Great, paranoia, needs the psych ward after getting patched up. There's some blood on his t-shirt, she notices.

"Hey, it's all right. I'm a doctor, I can help you."

"No really! I'm being followed." He insists in a whisper.

Oh man, Constance rolls her eyes, why does this have to happen to me, she asks herself.

And then, before she knows it, he's pulling her up and he's kissing her, deeply, sensually, and it is the most amazing feeling and – she pushes him away, kneeing him in the balls.

"Oi! I said I'm a doctor, not doing doctor-nurse role play!" she exclaims.

"Sorry," he pants, through the pain, "just needed to make sure they'd gone." He turns away, holding on to the side of the large freezer for support.

Can someone who kisses like that really need a psych ward? It shouldn't be allowed. She shakes her head to stop the thoughts.

He's swaying dangerously now, and it looks like he's going to black out, or throw up, or both. She also sees tears in his eyes, and she's not sure whether he's crying from pain or something else.

"Please accept my apologies. I'm having a pretty bad day," he grinds out.

She makes a snap decision. "Come on, come home with me and I'll patch you up. If you try anything else though, I have golf clubs with your name on them," and it's only as she says this that she realizes that she doesn't even know his name.

 

She's pretty much reassured that he's not going to kill her, since he can barely stay upright alone and has no weapons. She abandons the shopping and drags him home, sitting him in the kitchen and putting the kettle on, before setting about fixing him up.

She lifts up his t-shirt and sees horrible bruising on his chest.

"You should get an x-ray," she tells him.

He shakes his head. "No time," he replies, "I need to get going." He tries to rise, seeming to regret letting her help him.

"Bloody ungrateful git," she says, pushing him down. "Is that how you treat people who help you?"

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I've forgotten my manners. My name is d'Artagnan, by the way."

"Constance, nice to meet you," she says, dabbing at his cuts with alcohol, causing him to wince. "Want to tell me what happened?"

He sighs and sits back. She raises a hand as she hears the kettle come to the boil, "Hold that thought. Let me make some tea. Or do you want something stronger?"

"Tea sounds great actually," he replies.

His hands around a steaming cup of tea, he lets her fix up all his cuts and bruises. And while she does, he tells her about his father coming to London for a business meeting, leaving him in charge of their business, about the phone call from the police, the horror of identifying his father's body in the morgue, overhearing two policemen discussing the suspect (he leaves out the part about getting blind drunk and letting himself be seduced by a beautiful woman and her framing him for murder) and how he needs to find the guy, to ensure that justice is done, because he doesn't trust the police.

"And that led you here why?"

"The pub the guy drinks in is round here somewhere. The…um… King Louis, I think it was. A guy called Athos. The police are still waiting on more evidence before doing anything. What if he gets away before then?"

"Athos? I know him," she says, biting her lip.

"Can you show me where it is, the pub?" he asks her, almost pleading.

"You are in no state to go looking for a fight!" she tells him, "I know that look from my older brothers."

"He killed my father!" d'Artagnan protests.

"You don't know that for sure. Innocent until proven guilty."

"Nothing'll be proven at all if I leave it to the bloody police," he says, pushing her away and standing up. "If you won't help me, I'll figure it out on my own." And she can see him taking out his phone to look up a map as he leaves her flat.

 

She seriously thought about not following him, about letting him go, for about five seconds. But then, with a sigh, she decides she has no choice. Whoever this guy is, he's grieving and not in his right mind. And although she doesn't know exactly what Athos does for a living, she knows he can certainly take care of himself, and may well take care of d'Artagnan.

So she grabs her keys, coat and bag, and follows him out on to the street.

 

The pub is hot compared to the cold air outside. It's also full, so it takes her a while to find them, but she follows the noise of fighting and wood breaking through to a back room,. Athos and two friends have d'Artagnan cornered, snooker cues in their hands.

"Enough!" she shouts at them, getting in between them and the younger man. "Three against one? Doesn't seem very fair!"

Athos acknowledges her presence with a nod of the head and steps back from the younger man.

"I don't need you to protect me," spits d'Artagnan,

"I think you're wrong lad," says one of Athos' friends.

And then, in the middle of it all, the police arrive, to arrest Athos on suspicion of murder.

 

After that she takes him home again, and he lets her patch him up properly, and he cries for his father. She comforts him as best she can, offering him tea and biscuits and a sympathetic ear. He notices the wedding picture on the wall and asks where her husband is. "Away," is the only reply she can give him. She stopped listening to where precisely he is going long ago, since most of the time it's just lies.

Before she knows it, the other two are knocking on the door, explaining that they think Athos has been framed, and asking for his help to prove it. It fits, Athos being in MI5. It answers a lot of the questions that she's never asked, that they've tactfully stepped around, like a careful dance. But really, MI6 setting him up to settle some old scores? Could this sound any more like a B rated spy thriller?

"Seriously?" she's incredulous when she sees that d'Artagnan is going to help the other two. "Two hours ago you wanted to kill the guy!"

"I didn't know then what I know now!" he tells her.

All she can do is shake her head, "You do know James Bond is a fictional character right? You can't just run off and join the secret service and become a master spy!"

"We're MI5, not 6," the one called Aramis notes, "and to remind you, it's 6 causing all these problems."

"And what do you need him for exactly?" she asks, pointing at d'Artagnan with her thumb, "He's not exactly spy material." D'Artagnan gives her his most evil glare. She responds with her "you know I'm right" look, one he will come to know well in the future.

The taller one, Porthos sighs, "We have to do this off the books. Captain's orders. And we've got 24 hours. Right now, we need all the help we can get."

 

She presumed that she'd never hear from him again after the three of them walked out. And she was relieved, but sad, staring at the empty tea cups on the coffee table, contemplating her life as she sat alone in the flat.

But then the three of them reappeared on her doorstep, and she found that she couldn't say no to those brown eyes, pleading with her for help. They are still working underground, can't use any agents or resources. She's reticent, but she's lonely and bored and it's her day off. To tell the truth, part of her is enjoying this.

So she gets dressed up like a hooker, Aramis providing the clothes (she doesn't ask where he gets them), puts on the most make up she has worn since her wedding day, and goes with them to an abandoned warehouse off the North Circular.

The guy who opens the door is kind of intimidating. She gulps and stammers out the lines they prepared, trying to be seductive. "Mike said someone here called for a girl?"

"Nope," says the man, making to close the door.

"Hey," she gets her foot in the gap, not letting him close it. She looks down at her exposed cleavage, meaningfully. "Don't send me back to Mike empty handed," she purrs, "he'd get mad."

The man follows her gaze and does seem somewhat impressed at what he sees. He takes a step out of the building to eye her up properly and she pulls him close to her, swiveling him around 90', to an angle that will allow the others to approach from behind and knock him out.

Aramis tells her to stay outside in the car and Porthos pushes a gun into her hands for self defence. She wants d'Artagnan to stay with her, but he takes the gun held out to him by Porthos, grimly weighing it in his hand, getting the feel of it, and follows them in. And when she hears gunfire she can't stay alone anymore and creeps inside. The doctor in her is calling out to help, she tells herself. But if she admits the truth, she has to make sure that d'Artagnan is alright. She steps over fallen bodies, making her way further inside, and watches the chaos: Porthos rolling on the floor with a man, punching him, Aramis ducking blows from his opponent, and d'Artagnan wrestling with someone on the far side of the room. As d'Artagnan brings down the other man, she sees a movement from the corner of her eye. A body on the floor stirs, raising a hand holding a gun in the direction of her friend (is he even a friend yet? She'll never know if he dies now). She's never fired a gun before, and seems to do it on automatic pilot, the recoil sending pain through her arm. Everything goes silent and d'Artagnan is looking at her across the room, realization passing over his features, and all she wants to do is cry. He crosses to her and takes the gun from her hand.

After that, everything is blurry. She remembers someone crying out his name, the sound of another gunshot, and just wanting to get out of that place, far away from the blood and the devastation.

 

 

He's at a loss as to what to do. He doesn't want to walk out on her in this state, but knows that the window of opportunity for her opening up to him is probably closed by now. Go or stay, go or stay, he ponders to himself, standing in the middle of her living room, holding his jacket. Then in a moment of lucidity, he throws the jacket onto the sofa and goes into the kitchen.

He begins rummaging around Constance's cupboards, ignoring the good manners that would usually prevent him from so rudely intruding someone's personal space. He finds a saucepan and fills it with milk, placing it on a low light on the stove. More rummaging yields a year's supply of chocolate (for him, he guesses that for Constance this might last two months) and he selects the highest quality 70% cocoa for the task at hand. Once the milk is starting to heat up he adds in the chocolate, one cube at a time, stirring continuously. He then pauses to look around the kitchen and living room, eyes settling on the drinks' cabinet, which contains a rather good selection of beverages. Bottle in hand, he pours liquor into the mixture, before dipping in his finger to taste. But something is missing.

D'Artagnan finds the key on a hook by the door and lets himself out.  He saw an all night shop on the High Street on their way back, and if he runs he figures he can be back before she's out of the shower.

 

When Constance emerges from the bathroom, dressed in pj trousers and a t-shirt, fluffy pink slippers on her feet and a towel wrapped around her wet hair in a turban, the last thing she is expecting to see is d'Artagnan, sitting at her kitchen table, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in front of him, each one topped with whipped cream, sprinkled with cocoa powder and marshmallows.

"Thought you'd gone," she says with a huff, sitting down opposite him.

"Thought you might need some comfort food," he replies, with a cheeky grin, inclining his head towards the table. "And some company."

"You went through my cupboards?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry," he shrugs, grinning, showing that he is not, "try it and then be mad at me."

She picks up a mug and sips. She can't conceal her delight. "Wow, this is amazing."

"My mother's used to make it like this. Whenever I was sad…" he tells her, his eyes looking like they are somewhere far away.

She puts the cup down. Her hands are trembling and he puts his on top of hers, holding them still.

"I'm a doctor. I swore an oath to save life. What have I done?" she asks him, tears in her eyes.

"Saved mine?"

"In return for another," she rebuts.

"I don't think your aim was good enough to kill him, although not bad for a first time."

"Because you know so much about shooting?"

"I grew up on a farm," he tells her.

She looks down at the table, then back up at him.

"You're hurt!" she says, seeing the gash on his cheek for the first time.

"It's nothing," he replies.

"Wait, I'll get my stuff and fix it up."

As she cleans the cut and stitches it with the supplies she keeps at home, d'Artagnan closes his eyes (not only because he doesn't want to see the needle up close and personal), enjoying the touch of her fingers on his skin. He wants to think that maybe her fingers linger a little too much. "It's probably going to leave a scar," she whispers, stroking his cheek softly. But the moment is broken when the doorbell rings.

"It's 2am!" she exclaims, opening the door after looking through the peephole, "Have you no shame?"

"What you mean, madam, is that your life has never been quite so exciting!" Aramis says, bending to kiss her cheek.

He's followed in by Porthos, who smiles at her apologetically and shrugs, and then Athos, disheveled, in clothes from the day before but smiling and clutching a bottle of something or other.

"I hear I owe you a debt of thanks," he says, nodding to her, "to add to my tab." He looks at d'Artagnan, "And to you. My apologies for hurting you yesterday."

"You didn't hurt me!" the younger man exclaims, "I had the upper hand! If she hadn't…"

"If I hadn't come in when I did you would have been skewered on a snooker cue!"

D'Artagnan looks suitably abashed.

Porthos, who has crossed into the kitchen, grabs d'Artagnan's mug from his hand and takes a long slurp. "Wow, this stuff is amazing!" he exclaims.

 

Sometime later they are all settled on the sofa, with wine and hot chocolate, cuts and bruises taken care of by Constance. It has not gone unnoticed that she is leaning slightly in to d'Artagnan, her head drooping on to his shoulder just a little.

"So they were all hired thugs, apart from the one you shot d'Artagnan. That was Gaudet, MI6. The agency is claiming it was all his idea and that he went rogue… we'll have to wait until he wakes up from surgery to find out," Aramis concludes.

"If he wakes up," mutters Athos darkly.

"But you found everything you needed then? Enough evidence?" d'Artagnan asks.

"Yep. We also settled that other matter," Porthos tells him, "it was all a misunderstanding."

"Thanks," says d'Artagnan, trying to avoid Constance's eye. That's for another day.

"We were wondering…what your plans are now?" Aramis asks him.

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head. "I only finished university last summer. I moved home to help my dad with the farm and the business… but now I have to arrange a funeral, and there's no one left apart from me and…."

"Just breathe," Athos suggests, "it'll help." Constance takes his hand in hers and he tries to do as he is told, holding back the tears that threaten to spill over and that he really doesn't want these men to see.

"Look, if you're interested, you handled yourself really well, and we're always recruiting. We could put in a recommendation to Treville. If you're interested," Porthos offers.

"Although now probably isn't the time for big decisions," Aramis adds.

D'Artagnan shakes his head, trying to clear it, but exhaustion and grief are finally getting the better of him.

"Thanks. I need some time to think, to clear my head," he answers. "But I also need somewhere to stay. I don't think I can get a train back home at this time of night."

"Our tenant left the basement flat a few months ago. We haven't bothered looking for anyone new. Jack says we don't need the money, but…well… I can talk him around," Constance says shyly.

"And until then, Athos has lots of spare rooms," Aramis volunteers, eliciting a rather black look from Athos. But Aramis is already pulling d'Artagnan off the couch and making for the door, an arm round his shoulders. The other two follow suit, bidding Constance goodbye.

Constance listens to their banter as they leave her flat.

"What? He makes great hot chocolate. That should be enough to make anyone want to live with him."

"You have him then!" Athos exclaims.

"Oh I would, but one bedroom, my lady friends…. You know how it is."

"Yeah," says Porthos, "it might be good for you to get a flat mate. Less irate husbands running after you…"

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
